The Boy Who Fell From Grace
by illuminatachime
Summary: Draco Malfoy knows his task - he is to kill Albus Dumbledore and find a way to gain his fellow Death Eaters access to the school. But when a certain Doctor shows up to befriend the seventeen-year-old wizard, will it sway Draco's allegiance? Or will Draco become even more obsessive in his plot to kill the Headmaster, despite his discoveries in traveling alongside the Doctor?
1. The Very First Time

The clock ticked, and sweat rolled down his pale, fine temple. Somewhere in his head, something was throbbing, but he paid it no mind; he _couldn't_ focus on it, because he was too busy thinking about his _task,_ about what the Dark Lord had asked – no, _ordered_ him to do.

Draco was in the Dark Arts room, wand out, practicing his silent hexes. Crabbe and Goyle had left some time ago, sensing that the towheaded boy wanted to be alone. _And I do,_ he'd thought, being surprised at their rare demonstration of brain function. _I want some time to think without having to listen to your petty babbling. _

However, his silent time was not meant to be – sometime later, he was interrupted by a large, irritating _thunk._ It came from right outside the window on the far end of the room, and Draco raised his wand, checking his flanks and the door for people who so dared to intrude on him. Finding no one, he checked under the desks and in the corners near the door, around the bookcases too, but no one was there, so he turned. Quickly trotting over to the other side of the room, wand at the ready, he tried to force his mind to stay focused.

A million incessant, nattering thoughts ran through his head in tiny waves; they all traveled in different directions, branching out like a tree made of schemes and worries. _Assassinate,_ whispered one branch. Another: _Think of your father._ The clock above Snape's desk was ticking obnoxiously. _Tickety tock, rickety rock – _by golly, he was going to start making up nursery rhymes.

He sidled over to the edge of the window, not yet allowing himself to look out – he could be seen! – and listened. Leaning his head against the wall, Draco shoved away the murmuring, quarreling thoughts that overwrought his brain and concentrated hard. He heard a strange sort of _whoosh_ing sound, like one of those Muggle 'vacuum cleaners' to the point where it started to drive him insane.

Grunting a little in annoyance, Draco pushed himself off of the wall and sprung into a defensive position, pointing his wand directly at the window, and stopped. His mind went completely blank, and he was dumbfounded, bewildered; _what_ was that…_thing?_

So there he sat, trying to make sense of what had just landed on the roof. _Obviously, someone hexed it so that it would fly up here,_ he reasoned. _Windgardium leviosa…_

He knew about five other spells that could do the same job, but it didn't matter. He wasn't part of the Ministry and this wasn't a crime, so why should he try and figure out which bloody spell had been used? He was a _Death Eater,_ for Merlin's sake – he didn't _care_ about this.

Slowly, he lowered his wand. There was no threat, none that he could _see_, blimey, and that giant blue thing probably wasn't going to do any damage.

Draco turned his back on the window, walking briskly towards the area of the room where the students were allowed to practice. He felt slightly embarrassed for even having _reacted_ that way; how foolish _was_ he?

He raised his wand and whispered a curse, watching it fly at the wall and lay a scorch mark among many that already resided there. Draco whispered another, then another, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement as he aimed for the door.

Suddenly, three short raps resounded throughout the room, and Draco flinched, his hex going awry and hitting the spot just above the door. Whirling, he surveyed the room again, and when he found nothing, his eyes flicked to the far window.

"Bloody hell," he grumbled, beginning to walk down through the center aisle. He got to the back corner of the room and once again, his mouth fell agape in astonishment. The blue box that had been there previously was nowhere to be found, and instead, Draco saw a…_man?_

Floppy, brown hair that flapped in the breeze on the roof, dressed in dark trousers and dress shoes, a brown, pleated, plaid jacket. The man was facing the opposite direction, back almost touching the window but not quite, and somehow, it sparked more annoyance in Draco.

He raised his arm to unlock the window, holding his wand steady in his right hand, and then the man turned around and smiled, causing Draco to jump back. His wand flinched upwards, pointing at the man, and a small hex came out of his mouth; one so small that it merely bounced off of the window.

The man grinned and crouched, placing his hand firmly against the glass of the window and pushing. "Good of you to open that for me," he said conversationally as he dropped down onto the floor. Standing himself up, he dusted himself off, although it really didn't help anything.

"Who the _fuck_ are you?" Draco asked, ashamed of how his voice shook. He was completely taken by surprise.

"Not you," replied the man. His voice was strange; not high-pitched, not low-pitched. He sounded as if he was announcing something grand. His tone changed and the first word was loud, then the next word was quiet and secretive. "Not you, I'll bet."

"Of course you're not me. _I'm_ me," said Draco, his eyebrows twisting upward in a mix of emotions. Anger, annoyance, confusion, frustration…

He stepped backward as the man stepped forward. Draco's heel hit the leg of a desk and his left hand found its edge; steadying himself, he watched the man in front of him straighten the jacket he was wearing. _For Merlin's sake, he's wearing a bowtie,_ Draco thought, revolted.

"I'm someone else." The man's hands splayed outward, like he was showcasing something fresh on the market. He smiled again, and his hair flopped irritatingly to the side.

"_Ob_viously," Draco seethed. "_Who_ are you? What is your name?"

"I'm the Doctor," said the man, talking to Draco as if he were an infant; as if the answer were right under the Slytherin's nose.

"Doctor _who?"_ Draco's patience was wearing thin, and he was beginning to feel a hex form on his tongue. It tasted like salt and ash and pomegranate, and his arm's muscles twitched a little, preparing for the necessary swishes or flicks that the spell would require.

"You can call me Doctor. Everyone else does," added the man, murmuring more to himself than to Draco.

"Who are you and how did you get past the shields?" hissed the Slytherin, true to the name of his house.

"I fell," replied the man, blankly.

"You fell." Draco repeated the word flatly, his eyebrows dropping low in sarcasm. "Really."

"I fell from space," the man said, stepping closer to Draco as if he were explaining something privately. Draco raised his wand and the man stepped back, hands up, as if to show he was weaponless. It didn't matter; Draco still didn't trust him.

The boy moved around the desks, nearing the other side of the room; the one that had bookcases instead of windows on its wall. "From space?" he interrogated.

"Well, 'landed' is more accurate." The man waved his hand and laughed, as if it were a small mistake to have said he'd fallen. Shrugging, he looked so completely pleased with himself that Draco had the urge to hit him over the head.

"From _space?"_ Draco asked incredulously, doubtfully, looking at the man as if he were crazy._ And he probably is,_ thought the boy.

"Yes! Space! You know, the moon, Jupiter? Stars? Any of that ring a bell? Surely you must've heard of _space. _It's all around you!" The man lifted his arms, gesturing everywhere at once, and looked exceedingly triumphant.

_Doctor?_ thought Draco. _I guess I'll call him 'Doctor.' Until I can figure out his real name._

"Er, Doctor," he began, stammering slightly. "You _can't_ come from space." He was irritated; the names of unforgivable curses caressing his lips, pleading to be used. He pushed them away.

"And _you_ can't cast spells," replied the man, standing slightly taller. "I suggest you don't tell me what I can and can't do."

"Why's that?" Draco scoffed.

"Because you're the 'Muggle' when it comes to me." The Doctor's voice dropped dangerously low, even though he still looked as cheery as he had the moment he came inside.

Draco became more irritated than he already was as the man grinned hugely at him. Tugging on the lapels of his tweed jacket so that it fell more gracefully across his body, the self-proclaimed Doctor strode across the room; he turned in a circle as he stared up at the ceiling, his mouth agape in something that wasn't quite awe, but not exactly delight either. It looked, to Draco, as if the man had…_expected_ it to look like this, and the expression on the Doctor's face was merely that of a scientist satisfied that his latest hypothesis had proven true.

"Are you, er, a scientist?" Draco asked, deciding to climb along _that _branch.

"Yes and no," muttered the man, completely turning his back on Draco and walking towards the practice area. "Not really," he breathed, spinning on his heel and staring at the opposite end of the room with an intrigued look on his face.

"Are you a professor?"

"Hmm," went the Doctor, ignoring Draco's query. "This is quite ordinary. Tell me, where are the stairs?" Blank-faced, Draco pointed behind him to the stairs that lead up to the Dark Arts professors' office. The Doctor shook his head, hair flopping about, and made a face. "No, not those. The _stairs,_" he enunciated, as if it would make it clearer for Draco as to what he was asking for.

Scowling, Draco grumbled and brushed past the so-called Doctor; making his way over to the exit of the room and presenting it as if he were one of those silly assistants on Muggle talk shows. "There are more stairs out here," he said, mocking the other man's grandiose tone. He added in a mutter, "Now please _leave_ so I can continue with my practices."

"You're not going to follow me?" asked the Doctor, acting shocked. He blinked in puzzlement, looking over Draco as if he were a Muggle seeing Hogwarts. "They always follow me."

"They? They _who?"_ Draco asked, frowning at the Doctor with as much amazement.

"Ten hundred years, and I've never gotten sick of that word." The man's face grew fond. "Well, maybe sometimes. Only in crises."

"Crises."

"_Yes,_ crises!" The Doctor's eyebrows went up, and he nodded enthusiastically. "Lucky for you, this isn't one of those…yet."

"You're right," Draco scoffed. "I haven't _yet_ had my brain leak out through my ears from listening to you ramble. Merlin's _pants,_ are you going to leave or not?" He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall behind him, frowning so that a fine line formed in between his eyebrows. Pinning the Doctor with a withering look, he impatiently tapped his foot.

The corners of the man's mouth turned down in a grimace, and he shrugged, causing his tweed jacket to flop at his hips. "All right, then," he said. Stepping over the threshold, he made something like _significant eye contact_ with Draco, and then started to whistle as he flopped away.

Draco burned with annoyance; the _significant eye contact_ had been awkward, and he didn't know why it had even happened. When he was sure that the so-called Doctor was out of earshot, he ran to the far window and looked out upon the strange police box.

_Are we really going to do this, Draco?_ he asked himself. Then his father's voice took over in his mind, calling him rash and indecisive. Brushing away the threatening Lucius Malfoy, Draco made a displeased face and opened the window once more.

Stepping onto the window sill, he lifted himself out of the window and braced himself against the outer wall. Balancing himself on only his feet, he took a cautious step towards the mysterious, ridiculous blue box. It looked like it could fit about four people on the inside, but that's not what made him curious.

What made him curious was what had made the awkward, floppy man choose _this_ damnably blue police box as means of transportation. _It's probably a portkey,_ he thought with a grimace. _But who would want to come to the rooftop of Hogwarts? _

_Who could even get past the school's shields without dementors swarming them?_

It was true; there were none of the creepy, airborne reapers anywhere in sight. If he didn't know himself better, Draco would say that he felt apprehensive about the whole situation. There was only one person in the school that this man might be visiting: Albus Dumbledore.

Even though he couldn't see it directly from where he stood on the roof, Draco's eyes went in the general direction of the Headmaster's Office. The old snore of a man could still quite possibly be spying on Draco; it wasn't exactly a secret that Draco had something to do with the Dark Lord. In fact, the only reason he wasn't in Azkaban right now, like his father, was because no one dared to cross Voldemort, and no one suspected a _teenager_ to be involved so deeply, so darkly.

As the boy made his way to the box, the corner of his mouth quirked up in dark amusement._ They fear me,_ he thought, recalling how younger students – and even _older_ students – scurried out of his path whenever he walked the halls. Everyone except Potter and the members of that stupid bloody Dumbledore's Army was terrified of him. _And they have good reason to be._

His long, elegant fingers found the handle on the police box's doors; giving it a good tug, Draco found that it was locked. "Damn," he muttered, feeling strangely disappointed. His pulse was going slightly faster, fueled by curiosity (and perhaps the fact that he was standing on the roof of a very, very, very tall castle).

Sticking his hand into the pocket of his trousers and looking over his shoulder as if he were trying to appear inconspicuous, the towheaded boy felt his fingers wrap around his wand. An idea sprung to his head, and he checked inside the windows to the Dark Arts room to make sure that the strange Doctor hadn't returned.

Drawing out his wand, Draco raised it and pointed it steadily at the door to the blue box. This was magic he could do silently, in his sleep. One corner of his mouth quirked up in the only smile that he would allow to be seen, because anything other than this almost-smile, which was made up of cruelty and small amusement, would make him vulnerable.

He couldn't remember if it was his father who had taught him that, or the Dark Lord.

"_Alohamora,"_ he murmured, his breath whispering past his lips like one of the many ghosts at the school. A miniscule, gentle flick of his wrist happened almost unconsciously – after all, this was natural to him. He was a prodigy, no matter how much that success was masked by Harry Potter.

A click sounded, and Draco grinned despite himself. Reaching for the handle, he wholeheartedly pulled on it—

—and he couldn't believe it. _The door was_ _still locked._

"What…?" he spoke to himself. Then, he became angry. _Alohamora_ was by far the best spell for unlocking things, but this large, stupid box had obviously been charmed against it. Even though he knew it was rash, Draco couldn't help but act on his impulsive feelings. Raising his wand again, he hissed, "_Bombarda!"_

His wand spit a small explosion at its prey, but as what little smoke he had produced cleared, Draco saw that the doors to the police box were still intact. Fully frustrated, he said the next spell that popped into his head: _"Finite incantatem!"_

Trying the two previous spells again, the young wizard made an exasperated noise. Much to his annoyance, the man's extravagant tone came swirling back into his memory. _Because you're the 'Muggle' when it comes to me._

Draco grunted, straightening his posture and adjusting his shirt cuffs. He wasn't a Muggle to _anyone,_ and whatever type of magic this was, he was going to find out. It'd only been a couple of minutes since the bloody Doctor had gone prancing off; maybe Draco could follow him, study him.

His brow was set quizzically as he let himself back into the Defense Against the Dark Arts room, and as always upon entering the room, he smirked; the Dark Arts were seething in this school, right under the Headmaster's long nose, and not a thing was being done._ If it were anyone other than Albus Dumbledore running the school,_ Draco's father had said the past holiday, _I would believe that they weren't aware of us at all._

And by _us,_ Lucius Malfoy had meant the Death Eaters – their families, their _blood_ ran through the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; young and dressed in long black robes with Slytherin House badges sewn in. That didn't mean that _every_ member of Slytherin was the spawn of a Death Eater or at least related to one – no, the Dark Lord was very _exclusive_ about who was allowed into his inner circle. Of course, there was an inner circle in _that_ inner circle, and Draco's father had the honor of being in it.

_Lucius is so very sinister. My Lord recognizes that exquisiteness, and of course he allows Lucius to preside above the rest with us. We are ranked higher than our own peers, because we are the ones who _love_ our Dark Lord._

His aunt Bellatrix's voice rang through his head, sounding as always like it was that of a banshee trying to sing a siren's song. Disgruntled, Draco shook his head to clear his thoughts – he found himself doing that quite often lately – and peered out into the hallway.

He heard the Grand Staircase moving in its ever-consistent manner; with a horrified thought that he may have already lost the Doctor, he rushed outward. Eyes wheeling, head spinning, Draco's eyes locked on to the man – thank Merlin – and he attempted to blend in.

The Doctor was having a chat with a painting, and Draco wasn't surprised. It was that hour of the day, past class hours but before the students were supposed to retire for the night, so most of his peers were in the Great Hall, filling up on thousands of servings of whatever smell was wafting upward. That meant it'd be easier for him to sneak after the odd man – less people to interrupt.

Granted, a few stragglers wandered up and down the shifting staircases, but they went unnoticed by Draco as he ascended the stairs, climbing upward towards the Doctor, who was laughing delightedly at a remark given by the painting. _That_ made Draco pause – when was the last time he had heard someone laugh so genuinely?

He waited as the Doctor bid his farewell to the painting and set off further up the stairs. Purposefully allowing some staircases to move so as not to seem _too_ suspicious, Draco put a little more distance in between himself and the other man.

Following the stranger all the way up to the Astronomy Tower, Draco became more and more puzzled; wasn't the man going to visit Dumbledore? Maybe the old git was waiting for the man in the classroom. At any rate, Draco was sure that Voldemort and the Death Eaters should be informed of this.

The self-proclaimed Doctor didn't stop in the classroom; instead, he simply went to the outside portion of the tower, bracing his hands against the marble half-walls and staring up at the sky. The wizard silently tracked him to the outside. It was around seven at night, and the sun was halfway set.

Draco looked up to the sky as well; maybe to see what the irritating man was looking at, or maybe just to look. A light breeze ruffled his light blond hair, and he started to see the stars. Drawing in a breath, he stared up into space, almost forgetting what he was supposed to be doing.

"The stars are so magnificent, even when I'm so far away." The Doctor's murmur was barely audible, but it startled Draco enough that he flinched. When his eyes found the Doctor, the other man still had his back to him. The Doctor continued, as if nothing were odd. "There are whole planets, whole galaxies, that you couldn't even begin to fathom. Even as a wizard."

Draco swallowed noisily, chewing on his lip before asking, "How long have you been aware of my presence?"

"Since you walked out of the classroom," the other man nonchalantly replied. "My friend pointed you out, said you're a student that's _always_ up to no good." At this, he turned around and winked.

_His friend…?_ thought Draco. Then he remembered that the Doctor had been talking to one of the many paintings on the staircase. _Dammit. You're so stealthy, Draco._ He forced himself not to grimace at his mistake. _Amateur._

As if reading the Malfoy boy's mind, the Doctor smiled politely. "If you're wondering, that's _all_ he said about you. Not much of a gossip, that one. Which is lovely, really."

"Oh, shut up," Draco muttered. "What are you doing?"

"Always with the questions."

"_What are you doing up here?"_ The young wizard's voice was full of vehemence that surprised even him. Even though he felt slightly bad about it, it was best to stick with his pride and ride his venomous tone. Pulling his wand out of his jacket, he held its point to the ground, just wanting to show that he still had it. Implication was scarier than full-on threats, his father had told him once.

The Doctor made a displeased face, staring down at Draco's wand. "It's going to rain," he warned. "A storm's coming."

Draco fought the urge to glance up at the clouds. "I'm aware," he hissed. "But I don't really care what the hell you have to say."

"Then why do you ask _so many_ questions?" The man adjusted his hideously maroon bowtie, frowning slightly.

"That's not what I meant — Oh, _forget_ it. Who are you and what are you doing here?" Draco demanded, pointing his wand threateningly at the stranger.

"Who are _you_ and what are you doing here?" The Doctor asked in reply, his raised hands going outward as he shrugged. Despite the fact that he was being held at wandpoint, he smiled. It was a close-lipped smile; one that suggested he had a secret worth knowing.

"I'm Draco _Malfoy_ and I'm a student here—"

Draco was shocked as he realized his own voice had hitched and cut off, without his permission. Scowling, he dropped his face in something like shame. _What_ am_ I doing here?_ he thought despite himself. _I'm smart, I'm a prodigy; I should be out _there,_ working with my father and the rest of the Death Eaters. I'm not a child anymore._

"Lower your wand, please," murmured the man in front of him. Even though Draco glared at him, he put his arms down, tugging on his tweed jacket.

"Why?" Draco spat.

"Because it's polite," replied the Doctor. "Why do you ask so many questions?"

"Why don't you _answer_ any? You just change the subject—"

"May I tell you a story?" interrupted the man. His eyes were round and hopeful in the dim light, and he raised his face to look at the stars. "It's such a beautiful, cloudy night."

"That's what I'm talking about," Draco muttered angrily. Gripping his wand even tighter, he ordered, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't report you this instant."

"Well, I'd be gone by the time anyone got here to stare at me like you're doing." The Doctor's voice was comically defensive, and he gave Draco a once-over as if he couldn't believe the ignorance of the boy he was viewing. "You're starting to put me out of my good mood."

_Good moods don't exist,_ Draco thought bitterly. _There's just the idea of a good mood, and then someone comes and crushes it. _"I don't care."

"Oh, but you do," the Doctor breathed whimsically. "You care more than you can imagine."

"_What?"_ Draco asked, exasperated. It'd been the shortest amount of time, and he was positive that the man standing in front of him was the most _irritating _person he'd ever met.

"Once upon a time," began the strange, lanky man with the floppy hair. "There was a boy."

Draco groaned, letting his wand hand drop to his side. This stranger was _definitely_ not a threat, despite the odd magic surrounding his portkey. "I've already heard this story," said Draco, rolling his eyes. "The boy is young and abused and then he gets _chosen_ or something and becomes a hero, saving lives and getting the _girl._ I've already heard it, so save it for someone who _cares._ "

The Doctor didn't appear to be taken aback at all; instead, he gave the teenage wizard a wry smile and a wink, opening his mouth to reply.

"But you haven't heard the _ending."_

"Neither have you," Draco retorted, face scrunching up in revulsion. "Why are you here?"

"Once upon a time, in _this _galaxy, there lived a boy. He was cold and close-minded, apathetic and cruel." The Doctor's voice was merely a murmur; as if he were reading Draco a bedtime story. He might as well have been, because Draco was starting to nod off. "Well, that's what everybody _thought_ about him, anyway," continued the other man.

Draco heaved out a breath, wondering why he couldn't bring himself to just _leave_ already. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter what was in the giant blue police box, or who this man was. Both of them – the man and his box – meant nothing to Draco.

All that mattered to him was himself. Where he would be after he finished school. Would his father, his mother, the Dark Lord, and all his Death Eater peers honor him as one of their own? There was no doubt about it; he could be just as faithless, unmerciful, and _tenacious_ as the rest of his soon-to-be friends.

_Much higher than Crabbe or Goyle, although I'll have to deal with those buffoons, anyway._ Draco scowled a little bit, trying to keep an eye and an ear on the Doctor in case the man made any movements to attack.

A small word formed on Draco's lips, and he wondered: _Maybe asking him who he is isn't the way to get the truth out of him?_ Dozens of spells came to mind, but Draco again found himself oddly intrigued by the strange man.

"And of course, he proves everyone wrong," Draco finished sarcastically. He knew very well that the Doctor was implying that he – Draco – was the boy in this story. He smirked at the idea of how _right _everyone was; he was, after all, a wicked, wicked boy. _I won't prove anyone wrong. I'll prove them all right, a thousand times over. _"And then he becomes the hero." 

"He wasn't the hero, no." The Doctor's words made Draco's shoulders sag, as much as the pale-haired, pale-skinned boy hated to admit. He'd hoped, at least, that the boy could have _that._ But the man continued, "No, he wasn't a hero at all. He was…well, the best word to describe it is an _anti-hero."_ The Doctor made it sound mystical, magical, more than even Harry Potter could sound.

Draco scoffed, turning halfway towards the doors that led back inside to the Astronomy classroom. "_Please._ Anti-heroes only exist in _stories._ This isn't a story."

"Oh, but isn't it?" asked the Doctor, a coy smile playing on his lips. He didn't budge from where he was, although Draco had thought the man might try and stop him from leaving.

"No, it's not," he replied, wondering why his voice sounded strangled. He didn't _feel_ anything, so how come his throat seemed so tight?

"And _that_ is where you're wrong," replied the Doctor, wagging a finger as if he were giving a lecture to a misbehaving child. "We all have stories."

"This is _uninteresting,"_ Draco spat. "I'm finding that I don't give a _single fuck_." Forcing himself not to roll his eyes, he spun on his heel and walked away briskly. Nobody was going to make a fool out of him; he was the Death Eaters' apprentice. If he got lucky, he might someday become more fearsome than Voldemort himself.

Suddenly, a small jolt of a realization went through him. It was half-baked and completely preposterous – _But I don't _want_ to be fearsome. I want to be loved._ It came to him like a child crying out in the middle of the night, as if it were afraid of some monster under its bed. Swallowing hard, Draco thought harshly, like a father would, like _his _father would: _Their fear is what will _make_ them love you. You'll have complete control._

Becoming aware that he'd stopped at the doorway, he hastily stepped over the threshold and into the darkening tower. He must've wasted a whole hour chasing that strange, stupid man; he cursed out loud, quickening his pace. At this rate, everyone would be retiring to the dormitories, and he'd wanted to be alone before his fellow Slyherins came…slithering in.

Draco had no idea what was making him so angry, but he couldn't stop it. He felt how deep his scowl was, how harsh and bright his eyes were. He was almost stomping as he stormed into the hall, towards the Grand Staircase.

His father's voice rang in his head: _Control yourself, Draco. It's unbecoming to behave so rashly. Are you trying to embarrass me?_

But Lucius Malfoy wasn't anywhere nearby. Dumblesnore had made sure of _that._ Instead, Draco found out rather unpleasantly, _Potter_ and his two ugly followers were parading up the Staircase, probably heading towards the Gryffindor common room.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed past the three, almost knocking the Mudblood over. "Out of my way," he hissed. His hand automatically went to his pocket; if Potter bothered him, he was prepared to draw his wand and hex the idiot right then and there.

Yet Potter and the redheaded moron just asked Granger if she was okay, then continued heading up the staircase. _They're probably going to go see that nitwit who thinks he's a doctor,_ Draco thought bitterly. And he couldn't care less. _Let them have their secret Dumbledore's Army, Order of the Phoenix bullshit in private. Just do _your part_ and report it to the Dark Lord. _

He decided not to go to the 'Dark Arts classroom again, because that blue box was probably still perched on the roof. He was out of the mood for practice anyway; although his anger would fuel a hex rather well.

So he descended every inch of the Grand Staircase until he was on the ground floor, and then he was working his way towards the dungeons. He passed Professor Snape's old classroom; that new twit Slughorn was a downright bore. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Harry Potter was the top student in any of Slughorn's Potions classes.

He felt his lip draw up in a sneer as he swung past a group of babbling first-year Hufflepuffs. Ignoring them as they stared at him in awe – his reputation always preceded him – Draco wondered vaguely why they were here so late. Classes were over and the Hufflepuff common room was _definitely_ not right next to the Slytherins'…oh well. They weren't anyone he was to be bothered with. He was an acolyte of the Dark Lord Voldemort; he was, of course, the most dangerous student in the school.

More dangerous than any of Potter's crew. More dangerous than any of the whimsically intelligent Ravenclaws. Draco smirked. Potter was too stupid. Granger was too _good._ He wouldn't even begin to discuss the unflattering traits of the Weasley boy. Draco knew that because he was, more or less, a junior Death Eater, that he was superior to the Ravenclaws – although brilliantly gifted, they could never join the Death Eaters. That's why all the Death Eaters, or at least all of the Death Eaters that had gone to Hogwarts, were from _Slytherin._

_I've a certain disregard for the rules,_ Draco thought smugly as he approached the Slytherin common room. He said the password, ducked behind the wall…

…and instantly, he felt _wrong._ Something was _wrong._

Whirling, he raised his wand, flicking a hex at the nearest form that resembled a human. The hex hit a small statue with a _clack,_ and the statue fell to pieces on the floor. "Hello?" Draco asked, remembering to control his voice. He sounded like an authoritative adult, and he might as well have been. He repressed the urge to giggle at that; finally, he was in his sixth year, and a lot of students skipped out on their seventh year. After all, they could finally Apparate.

The dark, green-tinted common room was eerily quiet, but the feeling of wrongness faded a little. Cautiously making his way around each black or dark green leather sofa, Draco checked to make sure that he was completely alone.

_That's it,_ he realized. _I'm completely alone._

Where were all his fellow Slytherins? They can't _all_ have been in the Great Hall, still stuffing their faces. "Hello?" he called tentatively. There came no reply. "What the bloody _hell_ is going on?" First the so-called Doctor, now this…

Draco eyed the stairs that led up to the boys' rooms, the girls' rooms. There were two smaller rooms that weren't quite cut off from the common room, and each had a stairwell that led to one gender's dormitory. Leaning gently to one side, and then to the other, he felt the direction that the eerie feeling pulled him towards; it was the boys' section of the Slytherin dorms.

Crossing over to the right side of the room, he passed the mantle and entered the room that held the boys' staircase. He held his wand ready because he hated surprises, and he carefully made his way past several black-painted wooden cupboards and dressers. Draco really had no idea what they were there for, since no one ever used them. Everyone expected that any personal belonging that they might place in one of the pieces of furniture would be stolen; Slytherins were true to their name.

His black, polished shoe made a quiet _tap_ on the first stone step; it was best to be silent, and Draco gripped his wand. Curling his toes against the bottom of the inside of the shoe, he drew in a calming breath, and then took the next step, then the next. His heart wasn't pounding, his mind wasn't racing…he focused solely on the silver doorknob that was part of the black, lacquered door at the top of the stairs. The knob was engraved with a serpent that always looked alive, if you didn't stare straight at it.

For all he knew, it could've been magic playing the tricks on his peripheral vision. In fact, he hardly doubted that that was the case. Draco turned from the door briefly; his dark, grayeyes cast out over the rooms behind him. He sensed no threat, but he felt weird enough that he should inspect. It was his duty as a technically-senior Slytherin.

That thought tugged at his consciousness: _Technically-Senior Slytherin._ That's what he'd called himself. Slowly, Draco raised his head from its bowed position, staring straight ahead with a calculating expression. _Apprentice to the Death Eaters, Junior Acolyte of the Dark Lord, Slytherin Prefect, Son of Malfoy, Son of Black…and the Most Dangerous Student in the School. _

He closed his eyes, scowling as if it would help him block out what he was realizing: all these _titles,_ and no one knew anything about him. Was that what would be put in the newspapers when he became a prominent Death Eater? Or, maybe, when he became the _new_ Dark Lord? In his _obituaries?_

_No,_ he thought, the vehemence behind the word almost scalding to his mind. _I don't want to be known and remembered for those titles. _The seventeen-year-old entertained the idea of reading a headline about himself. And the titles were atrocious.

_I don't _want_ to be a Death Eater. I want to be _the _Death Eater. I want to _own_ this school and all the others in the world. I want to be the Malfoy that the wizarding world _fears…_instead of my _father. _I want to be feared. _

But most of all…_Most of all_, Draco realized with a cringe, chastising himself for the grave error of making a hypocritical statement just minutes before this. _Most of all…I want to be a _hero._ I want to surpass the _Boy Who Lived._ I want to be far greater._

He wanted to be a hero.

_So let's be a hero,_ he thought, placing his hand on the cool, smooth doorknob. Twisting it quickly, he thrust it open with his shoulder, spilling gracefully into the room, wand at the ready. _"Show yourself,"_ he hissed, noting that he _almost_ sounded like a Parselmouth.

Pushing down the surge of pride at that fact, he spun, checking the corners of the room – Professor Lockheart had said that the marvelous practice of checking corners was his own invention, but every one of the kids in his classes had known that the idea came from Muggle police series, on television.

Honestly, it wasn't a bad practice. Draco certainly wouldn't have claimed to be its creator – he wasn't _foolish – _but it helped in dire situations, such as the one he felt he was in. And going through the motions had rewarded him – there, to his right, hiding unsuccessfully behind the curtain on one of the first-years' beds, was the silhouette of a tall, gangly man.

"Who are you?" Draco asked, bracing himself for an attack. His eyes flitted to what he could make out of the man's clothes – the dark trousers, possibly brown, held no wand in their pockets. There was a strange cylindrical shape, though, but it was probably just a cigar. Gray eyes traveling upward, the blond-haired, pale-skinned Malfoy boy studied the man's jacket – tweed, old-looking, and—

—"Oh, for _Merlin's sake!"_ Draco growled, flicking a _lumos_ spell towards the lantern that hung from the ceiling. "_First_ you land your fucking _police box_ on the roof and ask me to _let you in, _and _then_ you traipse up to the Astronomy tower like you've got _business_ here, then you ramble about _nothing_ and bore me to death, and now _this—"_

The room was illuminated because of the lantern; and Draco noticed how…_gaunt_ the man looked, compared to before.

"Er…" he managed, chastising himself for stammering. "What happened to you?" He didn't lower his wand, but he didn't threaten the man with it either. Instead, he just stared at the man, slightly aghast.

The Doctor took one haunting, sauntering step forward, his floppy hair flapping slightly, as if the bouncy liveliness had been drained out of him – and for all Draco knew, it had. The man was covered in what looked like dust, or soot. It was too black to be dirt, and too light to be ink powder. Slowly, quietly, as if he were murmuring a warning to the blond-haired wizard standing a careful distance away from him, the Doctor said, "You should have never let me in."

"Probably correct," Draco mumbled under his breath, his wand hand wavering in the air.

"Time can be rewritten," the man nodded, as if trying to convince himself. "I grew to know that by the easiest terms, but I still learned it the hard way."

"The hard way?" Draco repeated, half-listening. This was just another nonsensical babbling fit.

"Yes, with Amelia."

"Am—?"

"Never mind that," the other man said suddenly, taking two quick, quiet steps forward and raising his hands as if to brace Draco for whatever was coming. Draco flinched, raising his wand to hex the bastard, but the man hissed, "I need you to go back to the Astronomy tower. That's where I was, right?"

"Er, yeah," Draco grumbled. "I'm not going to go back there. I'm tired, and I've a _curfew."_ That last part was a lie; he was a _prefect_ for Merlin's sake, but it didn't matter because the Doctor shook his head.

"Break it," he whispered fiercely, an intense look in his eyes. It was strange how he had looked so dead and gray before, and now, his whole face was alive with some sort of madness. "Break it and run there, as fast as you can, Draco Malfoy. Break it, because _time can be rewritten."_

"I don't understan—"

"_Go!"_ bellowed the Doctor in his grandiose tone. He grabbed Draco by the shoulders and spun the seventeen-year-old, pushing him in the direction of the stairs that Draco had just ascended. _De_scending the stairs clumsily, Draco growled roughly.

Straightening his green-and-silver striped tie against his white shirt, he stood erect and stared at the Doctor, who gazed back valiantly. "Why?" Draco asked stubbornly, even though he had no intention of doing what the man wished.

"Because it involves you," answered the Doctor, his voice barely calm. "I know that now, and if you run, I'll know it then."

His involvement piqued Draco's interest. He arched a beautiful, light brown eyebrow at the man and then shrugged, turning towards the exit. Not bothering to look over his shoulder or even show that he might still be apprehensive of the Doctor, he strode out of the smaller room, then the larger room, maneuvering around chairs and sofas until he got to the wall.

Touching it simply so that it would open, he called, "I don't know why I'm doing this, but I'm bored and everyone's gone, so why not?" Stepping through, he found himself in the dungeon corridor he'd gone through just moments before.

_Draco, you're a downright fool._ But, as the door closed, he heard the man reply, ever so softly, "Hurry, Draco Malfoy."

He didn't know what made him run, what made him dash up the stairs, passing Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs – and _urgh,_ most of the Slytherin house – until he got to the Dark Arts room's floor.

Skidding into _that_ hallway, he pushed open the door to the classroom and stuck his head in, eyes wheeling towards the far window. Yes, the blue police box was still there. For some reason, he'd had to check.

Closing the door gently before racing down the same hallway towards the Grand Staircase yet again, Draco thought, _Why am I doing this? I don't _care._ I don't care about any of this – this man, this blue box, this involvement of mine…_

But the Doctor's words rang in his head: _Oh, but you do. You care more than you can imagine._ And for that, he was angry. He was an exceptional liar, but this man had known the truth. The only other person that could tell when he was lying was his father, but this man was _definitely_ unlike his father in every way.

Swallowing, Draco could just _tell_ that if he decided to lie to Voldemort ever, the Dark Lord would see straight through him. And he'd probably end up dead, or worse.

Pushing past the three dimwits, Potter-Granger-Weasley, he snarled an insult at them and continued his journey up the stairs. He wasn't even tired of running all over the place; his endurance was rather marvelous, if he did say so himself.

One of the idiots, presumably the redheaded, called something back to him. It was probably the most laughable comeback he'd ever heard, but he had no time to quarrel with the Gryffindor scum.

No, he had something _important_ to do. Or, at least, _more_ important than bothering his least favorite people in the entire world. So Draco pushed past a few others, staring upward and ahead until he got – _finally_ – to the Astronomy classroom.

He burst through the doors like one of those fireworks that had been played as a prank on Umbridge last year, wand in his right hand, tie over his left shoulder. Pulling it down and again, straightening it, Draco paced briskly across the room, towards the doors that led out to the _outside_ portion of the tower.

And, to his slight astonishment, the Doctor was still standing on the balcony. He wasn't covered in dust, nor was he talking like the world was about to end. Suddenly unsure of what to do, Draco took a few hesitant steps towards the other man.

"I see you've come back," said the Doctor, amusement lacing his tone. "It's October sixth."

"Er, yeah," Draco managed. "It's a month and five days into the school year." He watched the back of the Doctor's head as the man nodded. His hair flopped in what appeared to be its natural way, compared to the Doctor that Draco had seen just moments before.

_Strange,_ he thought. _I've been all over the school in about fifteen minutes._

"Listen," said Draco. "Uh, _time can be rewritten,_" he quoted. "I'm supposed to tell you that."

The Doctor turned slightly. "Were you," he murmured thoughtfully. There was a moment of silence, then he continued, "I suppose you'll want to see the TARDIS?"

"What?" Draco blanched. Did the man just call him retarded? He huffed a breath; the air slid out of him and into the cold air in the familiar shape of a serpent. Draco tried not to smirk at the marvel.

"The TARDIS."

"What's _that?"_ The blond-haired boy scowled, once again annoyed. It was so easy for this idiot to irritate him. On a scale of one to Harry Potter, this man was…about an _eleven._

Of course, Harry Potter was _infinity,_ if this man was an _eleven. _

At any rate, Draco followed the Doctor out of the Astronomy tower – why had the man gone _there?_ To look at the stars?Draco scoffed; he doubted it.

_This is definitely the most irritating thing I've done in a while,_ thought Draco as he trailed behind the Doctor, wand raised slightly so that if others saw the two, they wouldn't think anything was suspicious.

"Where are we going?" he asked at one point, as they stood on the stairs waiting for them to shift. The Doctor was tapping his foot as if he were in a hurry, and Draco crossed his arms, trying to look as if he weren't associated with the man at all.

"To the TARDIS," the Doctor replied as if the strange word held all the secrets to the universe. He grinned a bit, and Draco was again taken aback at how different he had seemed in the Slytherin common room.

This brought forth two questions: One, how had the man traveled so quickly so that Draco wouldn't have seen him? And two, how had he gotten into the Slytherin common room? He definitely _was not_ a Slytherin, and had never been.

The answer to the first question probably had to do with time: Maybe, somehow, the Doctor had gotten his hands on a time-turner – dangerous things; Draco had read about them once, over his holiday break.

The answer to the second question didn't bother him too much – although he had _no idea_ how the stranger could've intruded like that, the Doctor _had_ gotten onto Hogwarts grounds without any trouble. And _trouble_ meant hexes, alarms, dementors…_Maybe Dumbledore's given him an all-access pass, _Draco mused with a sneer.

"What's the TARDIS?" he questioned, sighing heavily.

"Time And Relative Dimension In Space."

Draco scoffed. "What is it, a rocket ship?" He wondered vaguely if they were traveling to the Room of Requirement. Eyeing the Doctor, he saw no time-turner; it probably hidden. But what had made the Doctor so worried, so dirty? He looked as fine as a crazy person with no fashion sense _could;_ like the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Instead of the Room of Requirement, the Doctor headed towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts room – the first-years and second-years had taken to calling it DADA, like infants, and Draco was suddenly tired of acronyms.

"Oh," he realized. "The police box? Is that where we're going?"

"Yes, the _TARDIS,_" answered the Doctor. He adjusted his bowtie, and, looking over his shoulder at Draco, winked. "You'll be amazed."

"Saying something like that always ruins the reaction, you know," Draco replied tiredly. "What's in it?"

"Asking what's in it always ruins the surprise, you know." The Doctor's tone bordered on sarcastic, and Draco rolled his eyes as the man pushed open the Dark Arts room's door. Following a few steps behind him to the inside, Draco watched as the Doctor strode over to the opposite window.

_Déjà vu,_ he told himself. _Except not really._ He smirked. Clearing his throat, he went to stand next to the strange man, lifting his wand._ "Cistem aperio," _he murmured, and the windows delicately fell open. _If I were still a member of the Inquisitorial Squad…_he mused.

Suddenly, Draco went pale, and gooseflesh covered his skin. His heart and stomach both sank. The Dark Mark on his left forearm had twinged. His brow furrowed; he hadn't thought about the symbol all day. He remembered receiving it; the burning sensation that had sent ice and darkness through his veins, crawling with demonic fingers towards his heart and his mind, and leaving him cold as death.

Here he was now, shivering, remembering the Dark Lord, remembering his mission. He didn't have time to play games with the Doctor, he had to prove himself worthy; had to restore his father's honor.

_Draco,_ He Who Must Not Be Named had whispered to the young wizard. _You must find a way. This is a special task…_

And indeed it was. Swallowing, Draco looked at the man in front of him with new eyes. _I'm supposed to find a way,_ he repeated to himself, in Voldemort's voice, in his father's voice, in his own voice. _I'm supposed to find a way_ _into Hogwarts, for the Death Eaters._

He watched as the man stepped out of the window onto the roof, then followed, a sneering, malicious grin forming on his face. _"Colloportus,"_ he whispered, raising his wand to the windows behind him. He heard them latch, and he blinked, allowing the smile to fade from his face.

This man – this Doctor had gotten onto school grounds unnoticed, without apparition, without Dumbledore's permission, no doubt. _That must be the reason that he's not in Dumbledore's office,_ Draco mused. _Because he's not supposed to be. He's not visiting the Headmaster, or anyone here._

The Doctor produced a key from his jacket, waving it around like he'd found it in some sort of scavenger hunt, but Draco ignored his stupid grin and pondered the use of telling the Dark Lord – perhaps this man was allied with the Death Eaters? The gray-eyed boy grimaced; to be honest, this man seemed too…_happy_ to be anywhere on what the wizarding world liked to call 'the dark side.'

But he was still curious as to what lie on the other side of the locked doors, so as the Doctor inserted his key into the TARDIS's keyhole, Draco studied the motion mildly. His pulse jumped at the thought of reporting all this to his masters…_I should see this through,_ he thought. _This man has invited me into his parlor, no doubt. I'll let him do his parlor tricks, and then I'll leave._

The doors fell open, and Draco followed the man inside, eyes flitting about to make sure no one _else_ was around, no binding charms or hexes being cast – _oh._ Draco stopped just inside the door, looking around uninterestedly. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as the other man turned to stare at him.

"What," spat the Doctor, seemingly insulted. He raised his thin, floppy arms, as if he were presenting the inside of the TARDIS to Draco. "Are you not impressed? It's _bigger on the inside,"_ he added in a stage-whisper, speaking from behind the back of his hand and nodding and winking.

"Of course I'm not impressed," scoffed Draco, feeling rather like his younger self all of a sudden – before all this…_responsibility_ was laid upon him. "I've seen this type of magic _loads_ of times."

"Er, what?"

"It's the Undetectable Extension Charm," Draco said, as if bored. Rolling his eyes, he explained, "It's a sophisticated spell, but maintains itself as soon as it's cast, if cast correctly."

"It's like you're trying to explain it with science," the Doctor giggled. "No, no, this isn't magic – well, not _your_ kind, anyway."

"Really." His tone was more stubborn than since before he'd become a Death Eater; last year it would've been completely normal, but now, it was as if maturing and becoming an adult to his teachers' and family's eyes, maybe even the Death Eaters' eyes as well, had changed him more than he could admit. Draco didn't allow the realization to make him falter; he continued as best he knew how: snobbish. "Well, you've landed from space – you were _flying,_ that's _magic._ You fucked with time – you probably have a _time-turner_ somewhere, that's _magic._ And now _this,_ as I've already told you, is an Undetectable Extension Charm. _Magic."_

"You don't understand," replied the Doctor, his face more serious now. "This is _my_ kind of magic."

"If I don't understand, then teach me," Draco replied scornfully. "It's not as if I'm a Muggle. I can learn." He pushed away the thought of the Doctor saying that, compared to the strange man, the wizard was a Muggle. Of course, that wasn't true, seeing how Draco Malfoy _obviously _knew more than the man before him.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Close the door," he requested offhandedly. "We're going somewhere."

And for the first time in a long time, Draco obeyed someone who wasn't his father or the Dark Lord himself. With that realization came the memory of getting Marked – _branded,_ like Muggle livestock. Draco was one of many of the Dark Lord's followers, he was a Malfoy, a Black, and he was a _prefect._

His back to the Doctor as he studied the now-closed door of the TARDIS, Draco thought of how much _power_ those titles seemed to give him. _Am I beyond those titles, or am I not enough for them?_ With contempt, like bile, rising in his throat, he knew that the latter was the answer.

_I'll become enough. I'll become more than enough. I'll be worthy,_ he thought to himself. _I'll be worthy of the Dark Lord's trust, of my father's trust…_

…And all he had to do was _kill Albus Dumbledore._


	2. Beneath the Surface

"You never told me where we were going, Doctor," Draco announced. He held his wand in both hands, allowing his fingertips to explore its delicate features; the fine shaft, which was more or less the length of his forearm, was colored nut brown with a silvery-black handle.

Looking upon his wand, he remembered when it had chosen him. He'd been just eleven, which didn't seem like so long ago – but he knew better. His innocence, his pride, and his reputation had all been ripped away over the past six years. Everything had been ripped away but his honor; his duty to his family.

Swallowing, he turned to face the Doctor. The other man was strangely quiet. For once in the short two hours or so that the young wizard had been around him, the Doctor was completely silent. This even topped the eerie warning from the shadows in the first-year Slytherin boys' dorm.

"Doctor?" he called, turning in the TARDIS to settle at the base of the stairs that led up to the platform on which the Doctor was standing. Leaning against the railing for a moment before ascending the stairs, Draco asked, "Where are you going?"

The Doctor was pressing buttons and pulling things, a gleeful expression on his face. Glancing up from the numerous controls at the center of the room, he said, "Somewhere special." Draco felt like this was the part where he should roll his eyes, but strangely, annoyance didn't come. He was too preoccupied with the squirming Dark Mark spelled, tattooed, and branded into his left forearm.

He could _feel_ it – it felt like too-fat slugs were trying to crawl their prickly, icy way through his too-thin veins. It felt like his skin was rippling under the encumbrance of the Mark; as if the serpent that penetrated the mouth of the skull was trying to wriggle up Draco's arm, towards his beating heart – perhaps to wrap itself around the vital organ until it burst from the constriction?

_No,_ his mind whispered to him in his mother's voice – they'd had this conversation, long ago. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he remembered her words: _The Mark protects you, Draco. All you have to do is honor your family, and your promises. This is a _bond._ A bond that ties us even closer as a family, and a bond that shows our Lord that we are willing to follow him._

_But Mother,_ he'd argued, pleaded; reasoned, _I don't want to follow him._ Taking a calming breath, he fought away the image of his sixteen-year-old self. Such innocence, such naiveté, and it had only been just _barely _a year ago.

_But _nothing, _my son. You must…_

As her words trailed off, Draco had stared into Narcissa Malfoy's dark blue eyes, fathomless and seemingly obsidian. He looked for a way to convince her, to convince his dear mother to set him free.

Yet his honor was to his family, as she had said. His duty, his pride – it all rested within gaining the everlasting respects and trust of his father, his mother; the Malfoy family and the House of Black. After all, his mother was in the same position as he – she wasn't officially a Death Eater, she didn't bear the mark. But her allegiance was to Lucius, her precious dark wizard of a husband; her sister, Bellatrix, who like herself was a dark witch; and now, her own son, Draco, who finally bore the Dark Mark.

_This is no time to be thinking about my mother,_ thought Draco suddenly, revolted at how easily distracted he was today. _I'm in a strange place with a stranger, and I'm a Death Eater. It's time to do some digging._

He was standing next to the Doctor. He had a mind to kill the annoying bastard straight away, _Avada Kedavra,_ as easy as pissing – granted the subject casting the Killing Curse didn't have a bladder infection. Analogies aside, Draco didn't have a bladder infection; he never had. He was a _pureblood_ for Merlin's sake, he was above such disgraceful concerns.

At any rate, he decided against offing the Doctor. This could be a major breakthrough in his importance as a blossoming dark wizard. It'd be sloppy of him to ruin such a fresh, unheard-of chance. If any other Death Eater were in his situation, they'd have the Doctor being tortured for answers.

Just because Draco wasn't crucifying the man right then and there didn't mean he couldn't, nor did it mean he was weak or anxious. It just meant that he was taking a more _reasonable,_ intellectual path – if he gained the Doctor's complete trust and found out what _exactly _was going on instead of using Unforgivable curses, he could probably get a lot more information back to Lord Voldemort. Besides, he was intrigued. When the TARDIS had appeared on the roof, it had vanished behind the Doctor – invisibility was another charm set on the old police box, but it had just as easily restored itself. Maybe it was a fault, or maybe the Doctor had planned this, but either way, Draco didn't want the Doctor to know that he had noticed the oddity.

So, he simply continued asking questions, even though he knew the stranger wouldn't answer them. "Why did you come to Hogwarts?" His arms crossed, wand showing but not a threat; _I want you to believe I'm on your side,_ he thought. _So it's best if you cooperate._

The Doctor turned again to Draco, his warm eyes meeting the wizard's cold ones, and said, "For you, Draco Malfoy. To fetch you."

"_Fetch_ me?" Okay, this was the first question that the man had directly answered, but he still hadn't managed _not_ to irritate the hell out of Draco. "What am I, a ball?" The young wizard curled his hands into fists, one around his wand and another empty, trying to maintain his calm – his temper lately had been a lot better than this, but for some reason, today it was awful.

It was October now, and he'd had the Mark for several months. This was his fifth month as a branded Death Eater; he'd gotten the Mark as soon as he turned seventeen. He remembered kneeling at the Dark Lord's side, his left wrist being gripped in Voldemort's left hand, as the evildoer's wand pressed into Draco's flesh. The seventeen-year-old had watched the serpent take form, watched it enter the mouth of the skull, and he hadn't blinked. He felt the pain – the burning, the squirming, the blackening of his own blood under the Mark. There had been no initiation by speech, other than the swearing of his loyalty.

_I am loyal to the Dark Lord first and foremost; second to my family. Slytherin House is the third and last loyalty,_ he remembered thinking as he bowed and walked away from Voldemort. _Although some of us work for the Ministry, we are not its ally. _

"Yes, to fetch you." The Doctor winked, although the mirth he'd held before was lost. "You're important to my cause, I should say."

Well, great. It seemed like _everybody_ wanted to use Draco. "All I am is a pawn, all the time," Draco sighed. "And what were you planning on doing with me?" He swayed backwards a little, staring at the various types of machinery around what he suspected was the TARDIS's core control system. He wasn't a fan of technology, but this type of science was surrounded by magic.

"I'm planning on helping you! I know what you truly want; I could see it all over your face, the first time I met you," replied the Doctor. "You didn't want to go through with it."

Draco's heartbeat rose in a sudden panic. "Go through with _what?"_ he interrogated testily, moving so that he was closer to the Doctor, more in-the-man's-face. But the Doctor just smiled politely at him, slowly closing his eyes as he shrugged. A small piece of fury welled up inside Draco, and he found himself thinking, _the Dark Lord would torture. _The thought frightened him – why was he always thinking of using Unforgivable Curses?

More anger at himself came forth, and the nagging, needy desire to destroy something helpless tried to consume Draco, tearing at him with jagged teeth and claws. _The Doctor knows what I'm planning, _he thought. _If he knows, who else? Dumbledore? Potter?_

"If you think you're being funny, I'll kill you," Draco said venomously, his nose just an inch away from the Doctor's. "I'll kill you."

The other man said nothing; his eyes simply returning to the controls, brow raising in aloofness, and Draco thought it'd be a good time to sneer at him, but the young wizard's snarky little smirk just wouldn't come. He felt too _grave._

"How do you even know?" Draco asked, nostrils flaring in anger. His features became harsh; his eyes widened and he bared his teeth as he grabbed the Doctor's tweed jacket. The Doctor was only a couple inches taller than Draco, but it didn't stop the seventeen-year-old wizard from shaking the man like a child. _"How do you know?"_

"I saw," the Doctor replied simply, shrugging again. "No one told me, Draco Malfoy. If that's what you're asking." Apparently it was, because Draco let go of him, raising his hands to his pale blond hair in frustration. The boy's face was that of complete horror. The Doctor added, "And I'm not going to tell anybody, you have my word."

Draco squinted at the man, heart feeling as if it were palpitating with his terror, and looked around the TARDIS. "I can't trust you," he said hoarsely. "But I'll settle with that for now." After all, his duty was to Voldemort first and foremost, and if this situation with the Doctor might have an effect on the Dark Lord (the Doctor could still be friends with the Headmaster or Potter), then Draco had to find out what he was up to. "Tell me where we're going."

"Back in time," replied the Doctor. His eyes were a tad wary, but his mouth curled into an easy smile. "After all, we don't want history _repeating."_

Draco thought about it for a moment. "History repeating?" he repeated, his hand automatically going to his chin as if he were some scholar in deep thought.

"But you said time could be rewritten. If you don't want history to repeat, and if you can go, er, back in time, then why don't you just solve the problem _then?"_

The look on the Doctor's face was enormously appreciative. "How smart you are, Draco Malfoy. How smart, indeed." He stepped backwards and leaned against the banister of the platform, crossing his arms with a small smile. "But, you see, some things I can't change. This is one of those things."

"Er, what do you mean?"

"I _mean,_ I can see it. I can see _everything_ – the universe. I can see what's happening in the present, what's happened in the past, what _can be,_ and what must not. This is a 'must not' scenario; it's _fixed,_ I guess you could say. If it were fluxed, I could change it." The Doctor's shoulders sagged, and it seemed that his floppy hair and bowtie had also lost their perkiness.

"Then why bother visiting that time period?" Draco was still trying to wrap his head around this odd idea, and talking about it made it seem even more stupid. Cor, he was with _madman;_ a madman and his big, blue, _spelled_ police box.

"Because I need you to see it," replied the Doctor solemnly. "I need you to witness the events for yourself. Just because it's fixed doesn't mean we can't change what's happening _now."_

"How do you even _know_ what's happening now? You said you see the universe – that's _bullshit._ You're just a man!" Draco's accusations whipped out of him like stunning spells, but the Doctor wasn't scared away.

"I'm a _Time Lord,_ Draco Malfoy. I'm not human. Not a _man,_ in the terms of human language – although I _am_ male." He shrugged.

"What's a Time Lord?"

"I suppose you could say extraterrestrial," said the Doctor. "I'm an alien. Extremely long-lived, from another _planet."_

"I don't believe you," Draco spat.

"You will. But for now, we have work to do."

* * *

Lucius Malfoy, at age seventeen, had flawless skin, a smooth forehead, and hair that wasn't much longer than Draco's own. His smile was hard and sad, but it was innocent just the same.

He sat across from Draco in the Great Hall, staring unabashedly at his own future son. Posture straight and elbows on the table, he made no attempt at conversation; just sat there, unblinking. Draco glanced nervously around, wishing that he could focus on what the others nearby were saying. There were four others – Slytherins, obviously – that crowded Lucius, but his father's quizzical glare made it feel like they were the only two at the entire table.

It was dinnertime around the beginning of November; and Draco had gotten by the wards and teachers seemingly invisibly. There had been no introductions of any kind between him and his supposed housemates; it seemed as if the seventh-year and sixth-year Slytherins had accepted Draco into their posse simply because he was as old as and of the same House as they were. Although Draco thought that strange, he would've done the same thing if faced with this situation.

_I have no idea what to do,_ he hissed to himself, literally feeling a droplet of sweat trickle down his right temple. It itched but he didn't dare move to scratch it; he just stared at his father, petrified. He hoped he wasn't getting paler by the second.

He didn't know what he was going to do if he was caught at Hogwarts; he had no papers or enrollment. He'd told the Doctor that although they probably would recognize that he was a young wizard, he'd only be allowed to stay for a while – if even that. This was before Voldemort really started terrorizing the wizarding world, so Draco imagined that Dumbledore and the other professors wouldn't be too worried about his unannounced arrival.

_But I have to be quick,_ he thought. _They'll probably ask about my parents or try contacting other schools…_His mind wandered, but he was still trying not to look like a threat. His father still stared at him, but now Lucius's eyes were more intrigued than they were intimidating. _Probably because I'm a sixth-year that he's never seen before,_ Draco assumed.

He wondered where his mother was. She wasn't with his father's cronies, but Draco knew that she and his father would be getting married in little over a year. No doubt they were already romancing each other. Perhaps it was private for now…

"What brings you to Hogwarts?" Lucius asked finally, and the rest of the Slytherins within a two- or three-person radius fell quiet; the other Slytherins' eyes found Draco's father's, watching and listening respectfully. Draco noted that his father had the same control over his housemates as Draco did…_Of course he does,_ Draco thought. _He's a Malfoy._

"My parents," Draco said, and basked in the truthful irony of that answer. Funny, how he was staring at one of them right now. Lucius nodded, his skeptical expression smoothing a little. He didn't ask where Draco was from, which was good, because Draco had no clue what to pose as a lie.

* * *

When dinner was over, the students filed out of the Great Hall. Draco wasn't sure why none of them left before the house elves started cleaning, but he stayed as well, not wanting to stand out. Back in his own time, the students could leave the Hall whenever they wanted to.

Straightening his tie underneath his sweater-vest, Draco thought snidely, _I see the fashion didn't change._ They all still wore the required school day attire: cloaks, colors definitive of house, and dark skirts or trousers.

Unable to keep his eyes from flitting about nervously, Draco made the mistake of looking back towards the table of professors – he hadn't paid too much attention to them during the feast, but he was shocked to realize how many teachers he knew _hadn't_ been there for half a century. His eyes wandered against his will, and he caught the stern gaze of Professor McGonagall. Her head was dipped forward and her giant, pointy hat pointed straight at the ceiling. Hands clasped, she stood at a much younger-looking Dumbledore's elbow as the old man still sat; she looked a lot younger herself.

Swallowing hard, Draco then met the eyes of the Headmaster, whose gaze wasn't quite as flinty as McGonagall's; his expression instead was that of a wise man – knowing; and somehow, this made Draco furious. _It's the same look he gives me back home,_ Draco thought darkly. The old wizard's hands were folded intelligently in front of him, and he just kept looking at Draco, his smile wry, relaxed.

Frowning and turning away, Draco fought the urge to squirm under the thirty-years-younger Headmaster's stare. Draco sure as hell didn't belong here, not anymore; and that didn't just mean the past version of Hogwarts.

Ever since the summer, maybe before, he'd been a Death Eater – by blood or by oath, it didn't matter; they were one and the same now. Born a Malfoy, a Black; nothing would ever change. The safety of the Dark Lord's protection was slim, because Voldemort didn't really care about 'his own.' And if Draco didn't own up to the duties he'd taken responsibility for – to show that he _was_ mature enough; strong and cunning enough.

Filing into a line of Slytherins and exiting the Great Hall, Draco looked for the back of his father's head, which he'd lost sight of when he caught McGonagall's eye. For some reason, it was hard to spot the pale blond hair that was a hereditary Malfoy trait. Imagining that he was looking for himself in the crowd, he assumed the persona of Gregory Goyle, his long-time annoyance—er, _friend_.

Bobbing up and down and trotting around, he looked for Lucius, his now-dark hair flopping about like the Doctor's. The Doctor, speaking of, had disappeared the moment the train stopped, saying, "I'll be in the castle; you'll know where to look." Draco of course had no idea what the git was talking about – where the _hell_ would Draco look for him? Not the Astronomy Tower; there would be students around. The Doctor planned on going where no one would notice him, and Draco had no clue where that was. Forming a list of places to check: Room of Requirement, Library, Forbidden Forest, Quidditch Field, he finally found his father, heading downstairs towards the dungeon.

"Er, Lucius," Draco stammered, an unnatural occurrence. He traipsed over to the seventeen-year-old version of his father, who looked almost exactly like him but was different in so many ways. (Or _was _he?)

Lucius's blond head turned, and he looked down his long, pointy nose at his future son. Draco tried not to marvel at how unsuspecting his father seemed. "What?" asked the elder Malfoy.

"M-May I talk to you?" Draco rushed out. It was as if a sudden bout of uncertainty and self-consciousness had overwhelmed him; he felt like a _poor_ person. "In private, that is."

A sharp eyebrow raised on his father's face, but Lucius allowed Draco to snatch him into a nearby broom cupboard, and the small space fell dark as Draco shut the door. Sighing heavily, Lucius said sarcastically, "If this is some sort of love confession—"

"It's not," Draco said, shutting him down. Gagging internally, he listened at the door for a moment before turning to face the seventeen-year-old Lucius Malfoy. "It's actually…well," he stammered, fidgeting and looking down at his hands. How exactly did he go about doing _this?_ Swallowing hard, he decided to just be honest. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I know about you and Lord Voldemort."

He had the pleasure of seeing his father go pale, and although it gauged a little half-smile from Draco, he was still wildly uneasy. Lucius's stern, measuring gaze faltered as his eyes widened in shock, and his chin dropped so that only a few unintelligible words came out. "What?" he asked shortly, his voice low and deadly, yet shaky and nervous. It was probably one of the biggest reactions that Draco had ever gotten out of his father.

"I _know,"_ Draco replied hastily, feeling nauseous. There was no way to prepare for a confrontation with his father, and he was especially unrehearsed when it came to this topic, at this time. "It doesn't matter how I know, j-just that I do." He nodded as if to reassure the seventeen-year-old wizard ahead of him, and brushed a hand up to his own hair. Having not had the time to check his appearance after he 'dyed' it, he hoped the color matched his complexion convincingly.

Lucius Malfoy was speechless; perhaps for the first time in Draco's life – at least, that he had _seen._

Somehow, his mind tunneled back to the time at the end of Draco's fourth year at Hogwarts, when he'd been fifteen years old and stupid; he remembered being called home with the news that the Dark Lord was back in power…yes, that summer, everything had changed. His parents and the other undiscovered Death Eaters began hanging around a lot more, his aunt Bellatrix and several more of Voldemort's acolytes escaped from Azkaban…and Draco himself truly stopped being a _child._

That summer, Draco saw Lord Voldemort for the first time. Not in those newspaper clippings in the Forbidden section of the library (yes, he'd managed to get in a few times) that always were too _blurry_ to be sure that the Dark Lord had ever been photographed as he was (they resembled the mystery of the so-called pictures of the "Loch Ness Monster," or "Bigfoot").

"Who _snitched?"_ Lucius snarled, grabbing Draco by the collar and calling him back to the present—er, _past._ "Was it that mangy _git,_ Yaxley? Or was it Crabbe?"

_Crabbe?_ Draco thought, then brushed it aside. This was literally in the past, so it didn't matter who his father thought was a traitor. "No one snitched!" he hissed back out of pure annoyance, shoving Lucius away from himself and rubbing at his neck. "No one snitched, but it doesn't matter."

"Well how the _fuck_ do you know?" Lucius seethed at his future son, his eyes flaming with something akin to scorn. Whipping out his wand, which Draco knew was made of elm wood and dragon heartstring – passed down throughout the family – the Malfoy boy of the past growled, "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you!"

Draco had predicted the death threat, but somehow he was still surprised – perhaps it was because something of its sort was to be expected from a panicking young teenager so like himself, yet Draco still had hoped that his father be gentler in his exposure. "I have no reason," he said plainly, then thought about it. Clearing his throat, he added, "Except that if you should end my life, there will be a father somewhere, who you resemble so fascinatingly and bizarrely, that will have lost his only son. Maybe it would not faze him in the way that I would hope – out of love; but maybe it _would_ faze him in the way that he would wish to carry on his gene pool, his bloodline, and fail at that. I love my father, I do; my mother, too. So I don't want their son to suddenly disappear without a trace."

Lucius's expression remained bitter, but he gave no verbal response. Lowering his wand, he said, "My affairs are none of your business." He looked away, down and to the right, eyes fixing on a small box that was filled with cleaning utensils. "What I do is my choice, and mine alone. You shouldn't even be getting involved."

"Well, I am, because what you're doing is wrong! I've no intention of reporting you, Lucius, but you have to _see,_ because this is only going to damage you – you and your entire life! Do you want to be an old man and regret the horrible things you've done? You can prevent those things from being done by simply leaving. You could go into protection under the Ministry – you could ask _Dumbledore…"_

"Don't tell me what I should do!" Lucius snarled. "You have no idea who I am or what my feelings are on the matter. I respect that you won't tattle on me, but if you think you can convince me to change, you're wrong. I suggest you leave," he demanded hotly.

"But Da—_Lucius,_ you don't know what you're getting into! This is your life," Draco pleaded. "Think about what this will do to your future!" He left out the words that still might dare to jump from his lips: _Think about the family you're going to have. Your children…_child. _Please._

"I already have," Lucius replied coldly, trying to push past Draco. This time, the seventeen-year-old wizard of the future grabbed the seventeen-year-old wizard of the past by the shirt, bringing him closer. Draco didn't care if this was uncomfortable anymore; he cared about _himself,_ since his father seemed to be beyond saving.

"You don't understand," Draco said with the same vehemence, deciding after all to use the words that might provoke suspicion. "…Think of the person you're going to marry. Think of the children you're going to have. Would you really want to see them fall to the same fate that you're subjecting yourself to right now? They wouldn't have a choice. But you _do."_

Lucius's glare seemed to falter as Draco looked into his father's eyes, but in the end, he shook Draco off of himself and pulled at his collar and tie, ignoring Draco's further protests as he fixed his appearance. Squinting at Draco and then shaking his head, Lucius, as usual, assumed the more _mature_ role, as Draco had also expected.

"I will not listen to this nonsense," Lucius proclaimed tenaciously. The fervor with which his father's faith in the Dark Lord was so profound became apparent to Draco, and although he felt the urge to try _harder,_ he suddenly realized that the Doctor had been right – this was a 'fixed' time.

"No," Draco said solemnly, more to himself then to Lucius. He felt his face crumbling, and turned away. "Please." _This is my one chance,_ he thought. _The only chance I've got to fix everything, and I've gone and fucked everything up._

His father continued in a businesslike manner, his face cool and neutral but still as deadly as a Malfoy could be: _very._ "I expect," he began, "that you will not speak of this to _anyone,_ under the terms that if you do, I will _kill_ you. I trust you won't go running to any of my fellow Death Eaters, but should you do so, they will not be so hesitant in ending you as I was. Mark me, you fool. Come to me again with this idiocy, and I will skin you and burn you alive."

Lucius Malfoy turned away at the same time that Draco Malfoy raised his wand, and barely had time to notice before Draco whispered, _"Obliviate." _

There was a brief swirl of air – the only evidence of the spell, and Lucius Malfoy sagged to his knees. Draco caught him swiftly; lowering his father to the ground, he watched as the other seventeen-year-old wizard's eyelids fluttered in confusion.

"I must protect myself, you see," Draco murmured so softly that Lucius, less than an arm's length away, didn't hear him. "If I can't protect you and mum." After a moment, he added, "I'm sorry."

He looked down at his father, who was getting more and more corrupted every day, and knew that he could not save him. There was no point in trying to free his mother from this curse; and if he did as such, he might sacrifice his very life. And that was just too hard to do. His family was well-off, they were survivors – they were under the protective watch of the Dark Lord, as one of the most respected and revered families that basked in his dark light.

_Now, I have to say goodbye,_ Draco told himself. His face was blank, and he knew that the only memory he could've taken from his father was this conversation. Meddle with anything else, and he might remove something important – something that would get his father killed if the Death Eaters noticed that Lucius's brain had been hacked.

Lucius had also lost the memory of Draco's face, so that when Draco (in the future) grew to look like he did now, except with his natural white-blond hair, Lucius wouldn't suspect anything.

Draco raised his wand again, as he spelled Lucius into sleep, uttering small words that would make his father drowsy…forgetful, still…And then, Lucius's eyes focused on Draco's face. He was still in that stage between consciousness and oblivion, so Draco trusted that his face would still be forgotten.

"What's your name?" whispered the elder Malfoy. Of course Lucius would ask his name at this time. He looked up at his son, his expression the definition of incoherent. And the son would say, very quietly…

"Draco."

* * *

There was no telling where or when the Doctor popped up out of nowhere; nonetheless, Draco had expected it and didn't flinch. He left his father's sleeping form on the floor of the broom closet, for questions of Lucius's whereabouts to be asked later. Walking out of the room, the dungeon, and the main doors of Hogwarts, Draco went unnoticed by faculty and students alike. With normal-colored hair, he didn't stick out very much. (He wasn't sure whether he liked that or not.)

"You don't think you did very much," the Doctor stated, walking next to and looking solemnly at Draco, who was trying his hardest not to lose it in front of the man he barely knew. The blond boy nodded, raising his head to meet the eyes of the Time Lord. His face was even paler than usual; his grey eyes were red around the rims.

"Why did you bring me here?" he whispered hoarsely, and even though his volume was low, his voice cracked over the last few words. He already knew the answer; he knew he knew the answer because he was upset, because his hands were shaking, because his knees felt like they were made of gelatin. "I didn't do anything at _all."_ He almost stumbled and fell as his foot caught on a big rock.

"I brought you here to change you," the Doctor replied. "To make you understand." It was different than the reason the twelve-thousand-and-something-year-old had given earlier, but even then, Draco had known. He'd known because 1971 was the year that his father became a Death Eater; was the year that his father descended into _true _depravity.

His nostrils flared, and he sniffed out of spite. Resolve threatening to break him, Draco looked away and tried to disguise his shaking as shivering from the cold. He said nothing; couldn't speak, for fear that his voice would crack again and give him away. He felt like he was…slipping.

A long while passed, and Draco led himself and the Doctor towards the edge of the grounds, so that they could Apparate back to the TARDIS. It was easier than traveling the way they'd arrived to Hogwarts.

"Draco," the Doctor said quietly. "I told you that you couldn't change his mind about joining the Death Eaters. You know you couldn't have. It was fixed," he added as Draco emitted a choked sob. "But, Draco – you _did_ speak to him. And you know what? You had such an impact on your father that he, even though he is so corrupted and was only with you for less than a _day,_ named his _son_ Draco, nine years later. I would wager that even though he's lost his memory of your conversation, he still remembers _you._"

"There's no way…" Draco's sentence trailed off as he realized that there was no way of _knowing_ whether or not someone remembered a person for their personality after the forgetting spell.

The Doctor slowly grinned. "See," he affirmed. "He probably will remember your spark. Your integrity. I have no idea what you said to him, but you went to him with the intentions of changing his mind, even though I told you that you couldn't, Draco. That's worth something!" He paused so it would sink in, but Draco still looked hopeless. So the Doctor wet his lips and added, "The important part of this is whether you choose to reject your feelings about it now."

Draco looked up, raising an eyebrow. His eyes weren't red anymore; that was good. "What do you mean?" he asked, clearing his throat. The Doctor stopped; by now they'd reached the edge of Hogwarts' grounds, and Draco waited for the Time Lord to speak.

"Tell me, Draco. If you're so upset that your father is a Death Eater, why do you want to _become_ one?" asked the Doctor after a moment. "It's not your burden to bear."

Draco stared at the other man, his expression both dazed and bewildered. It wasn't that he was completely blindsided; it was just that he hadn't expected the Doctor to ask the question aloud. He figured, as always, that honesty was the best policy – despite his 'notorious' silver tongue. "Security," he rasped, his voice thick and hoarse from the weakness of his energy and the strength of his emotion. "_Safety._ I'm _scared." _The Doctor's face turned confused, but he said nothing, so Draco went on."Why do you care? This whole situation shouldn't concern you, so why are you trying to fix this?" There was another brief pause as the Time Lord prepared to speak. He took a deep breath, and for the first time that Draco saw, his expression as he remembered his past made him look as old as the Titans.

"Well, see, I haven't always done right," answered the Doctor, in a businesslike, quid pro quo fashion. "But I see the universe. I know what should happen and shouldn't happen. And here, the crisis is right now in _your_ time, on Earth."

"So you want to stop Lord Voldemort," Draco clarified. The other man nodded.

Draco looked down at his feet, saying nothing for the longest time. The silences between himself and the Doctor were not awkward, but rather, thought-provoking and thought-encouraging. He sensed that the Doctor truly wanted him to think about his forthcoming actions.

"Draco," said the Doctor. "Why did you try and convince your father not to join the Death Eaters, even after I told you that you wouldn't be able to? Was it because you know the horrors? Was it because you love him?"

"Because I know the horrors," Draco replied. "And because I love him, weird as it seems." He swallowed and stared straight ahead, into the cold, grey distance that was blanketed with fog and fallen leaves. He smelled wet, decaying plants and sighed heavily, wondering if Hogsmeade looked any different than it did in 'his' present time.

That was the end of the conversation for a while; they Apparated back to the TARDIS, same street and everything, and the Doctor marveled at Draco's expertise on the matter. Draco said in response, "I'm a wealthy pureblood, Doctor. Of course I'm well-practiced." He straightened his sweater-vest with a haughty, finalizing look. His face was proud, but his eyes were distant.

Pulling the TARDIS's key from the inside of his jacket, the Doctor grinned at the seventeen-year-old wizard and said, "It's alright for you to change your hair back, now. No one's around." His own hair flopped in the autumn wind, and the tails of his jacket lifted up when a huge gust of the stuff came by.

Draco changed his hair back to its natural state, and found that his heart and stomach both felt as if they had a ball and chain attached to them. There was a small lump in his throat and he would've sooner said it was a malignant tumor than tears, but it went away as soon as he scorned it, and the thought was done.

He understood why the Doctor had brought him here; _perfectly_ well, he comprehended the Doctor's intentions. Still he was unfazed, but he felt more hardened than he had when he'd stepped into the TARDIS. It was only earlier in this presumably same night that he'd met the Doctor, but they'd connected in a way that made it difficult for Draco to think of the other man as a mere acquaintance.

They made small talk as the Doctor pressed buttons; his face lit up at the TARDIS and Draco wondered what kind of person…_creature_ could've made this machine. _Is it even a machine? _he wondered. _I feel…a presence._

Then, the Doctor asked another thoughtful question. "Draco," he began in his whimsical tone. "Why in all of space did you go into Hogwarts trying to convince your father to listen to you, when you won't listen to me?" Glancing at the wizard, he waited patiently_ Clearly, you already know the answer to this, Draco,_ thought the Doctor, squinting quizzically at the boy. _For how long, I wonder?_

At first glance his face was blank, but on closer inspection, Draco's grey eyes were dark and torrid. His lips and jaw were stiff as he said, "You must know by now." Straightening his tie, he went on: "A storm is coming; a huge, raging tsunami. And me – I'm in the middle of it."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the wait, ahhh! I had some trouble with how I wanted to do this chapter. It's about three thousand words shorter than the previous chapter, but it's still pretty long. I hope you enjoy it! Reviews are always lovely ;)


	3. Holes

**Author's Note:** I AM SO SORRY it took so long to update! I had a bit of a two-month health issue that included many hospital visits, but before that I was simply preoccupied with my schoolwork and my other fics! Anyways, as it is summer, I will now be able to finish this much faster than usual. As always, reviews are peaches and cream and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

The night of October sixth was much like it had been when Draco left it for the cold day in 1971, but all that was long past as Draco lifted his legs, one after another, up the stairs to the boys' dorm in the Slytherin common room. The Doctor had disappeared somewhere with the promise of return, but Draco honestly never wanted to see the man again.

There were two things of which Draco was frightfully certain. One: that his father had willingly, eagerly chosen the life of a Death Eater, while not knowing the circumstances and consequences which the future would, for the seventeen-year-old Lucius Malfoy, soon hold; and two: that the Doctor knew a whole lot more about what was about to happen than Draco or anyone else did.

_And that's why I must wait for his recrudescence, _he grumbled inwardly. _Even though I resent the day he comes again._

October passed smoothly, with him resuming his assignment; he continued to search for a way to allow his fellow Death Eaters. He snuck into the Forbidden Section of Hogwarts' library about seven times – why for Merlin's sake did Hogwarts call the section 'forbidden' if it was so unguarded?

It almost seemed like Dumbledore didn't mind allowing students access to the section, as long as they were brave enough to enter without permission. _Yeah, that's probably it,_ he thought to himself one day, lurking in a deep corner, reading about dark magic and trying to find ways to force through many powerful wizards' and witches' ancient and modern shielding.

After hours and hours of searching for the answer to the problem, Draco realized that all of the books in the Forbidden Section were ancient, just like Hogwarts' shields. If there were a way to take them down written or spoken in one of these forbidden books, the Dark Lord would've found it ages ago, when he was only known as Tom Riddle.

Frustrated, he'd slammed the book he'd been rifling through back into its place on the shelf; as he sauntered away, it shouted obscenities at him. That was the last time he visited the library for that subject. "There's got to be some way," he told himself. "There's _always_ a way. That's what magic _is."_

Draco strode out of the library as if he weren't up to anything, and students cringed away from him, perhaps remembering how he was one of Umbridge's favorites last year. He'd hated the bitch, but she'd set him above everyone else, and he'd made like his father and groveled at her feet.

The corner of his mouth twisted into something like a grimace as he remembered his father telling him, _Draco. If you ever have any reason to believe that someone around you is more powerful than yourself, befriend them. Gain their trust. That is the only way you will make it in this wizarding world. _

"I think I was only ten years old, then," he murmured under his breath; his hands clasped behind his back, and his dark grey v-neck sweater wrinkled at his abdomen as he leaned his torso forward, dipping his head downward in thought.

His mind raced around him in circles, digging a hole big enough to fill with water and be called a moat. Draco wasn't a stranger to isolation; being alone was soothing to the seventeen-year-old, but ever since he'd received his Dark Mark, Draco had been withdrawn even from his own company. Too much to do, too little to say.

_I am a puppet._

And Voldemort was never content with what his followers were doing. From something as simple as providing meals and shelter for him to large-scale things that the older Death Eaters kept secret – Draco figured that these contained murder and torture and did not want to be involved – the Dark Lord simply found no peace.

Scratching idly at the inside of his wrist, he hummed tunelessly to himself as he renewed his list of Ways to Get the Death Eaters Access to Hogwarts. Wishing that they could just walk through the front doors and be done with it, Draco heaved a sigh.

The rubber soles of his polished shoes clacked on the stone floor, but they didn't bother him. He'd learned to tolerate many things in his life, and to ignore the rest. The only annoyance he'd ever _not_ been able to prosecute was Potter and his stupid friends, Granger and Weasel. Lately, though, it seemed as if the three were keeping quiet – no doubt up to more _good deeds_ with Dumbledore. Draco didn't find them hardly as caustic as he did before, but he hated them nonetheless.

Days of not knowing what to do turned into weeks, and Draco tried to distract himself with homework and girls, but nothing ever worked. He'd lost a fair amount of weight; his appetite had disappeared and probably would never return. Teachers and fellow Slytherins – some the spawn of Death Eaters – would stop him in the hallway or lean towards him in class and ask him if he was _okay._

"I'm fine," he would say. _I don't need your pity and you shouldn't care,_ he would think. _Just leave me alone and I'll be better than ever._

But he didn't really believe it. Halloween was approaching soon and there was to be some huge party, but as usual, Draco was disinterested. A few people asked him to go, mostly girls, but he always said no. He wasn't sure if he'd even attend to begin with, and he knew it'd make him look odd if he didn't bring a date, but he just couldn't bring himself to _care._

All Draco thought about was the seventeen-year-old Lucius Malfoy, understanding with perfect clarity the gravity of what he was doing; what he was becoming. Draco felt that heaviness within his own chest; a large, malignant tumor right in between his lungs.

It was the evening of the twenty-eighth of October that Draco received a thin, black envelope, with his initials embellished in silver on the front. Cocking his head to the side, Draco glanced around the room – the Great Hall, it was – and found the usual amount of people staring at him.

But the pairs of eyes that bothered him were the eyes of Potter and his pals. The Weasel looked constipated, while Granger and Potter looked perplexed. Draco managed a half-hearted sneer and stood, lifting his legs over the bench and walking briskly towards the exit of the room. He didn't bother looking over his shoulder; he knew that the trio's heads were already bent together, scrutinizing every move Draco had made.

He didn't care. Merlin's _pants,_ he didn't care. They could prance around with their goody-two-shoes mindsets and their gay old twat of a Headmaster, but that wouldn't scare him. Draco wasn't even wary of them. What could they do to him?

What could they do to him that he hadn't already done to himself? Turn him in, get him imprisoned? Please. Anywhere, he knew, would be better than where he was right now – but he didn't want to leave; he didn't want to leave the careful, protective gaze of his father and the Dark Lord – even if those gazes were threatening and intimidating as well.

He pushed through crowds of students, spitting curses at and giving dirty looks to the younger students. What was school, if there wasn't at least one student to be afraid of? Sixth-Year Slytherin Draco Malfoy terrified _everyone,_ even the seventh-year Slytherins. He was minutely proud of that.

Finding the entrance to the common room, he spoke the latest password and tapped his foot impatiently as the wall slid open; ducking inside, he checked to see if anyone was standing around. Nobody he could see was there – probably still in the Great Hall – so he tore open the letter and greedily read the carefully scripted, gracefully written words.

It was a summons; to Draco's own manor, an order from the Dark Lord Voldemort. Draco was slightly irked by that, but shook it off as his sunken-in eyes painted the page with their gaze. _The Dark Lord requests that the young Master Malfoy is to Apparate to the gates of Malfoy Manor at 7:00PM on October 25__th__._

The note was simple; concise. Written in one of the smarter house elves' writing (Draco could tell because there was always a slight shakiness to the writing that didn't seem human), the command didn't tell him how to get out of the building, or that anyone would be sent to greet him or excuse him from class.

_This is a test,_ he realized. _They're testing me to see if I can get in and out without anyone noticing me. They're seeing if I can do my job._

A sudden growl erupted from his chest and he crushed the letter in his right hand, feeling the pokey corners of the folded paper dig into his palm. He watched the skin over his knuckles stretch until it became colorless; bone-white. Staring at his pale arm and feeling like a vampire had sucked out all of his nonchalance and composure along with his blood.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the glass on one of the nearby cabinets, Draco saw how strange he looked. In the green-and-grey hue of the Slytherin common room, his brow looked heavy and ancient, and his eyes were dark and greyer than usual. Everything about him was losing its color, so it seemed. His skin blended in with the white of his shirt, and his hair seemed to be turning white, as if he'd seen so many wretched, frightening things that his mind had lost it.

But his worrying, paired with Voldemort, was enough to make _anyone_ go prematurely white-haired. He looked like a freak; what had happened to the charming, confident, handsome young man that had been blooming only a year ago?

He just wanted to fall under the radar, out of the system now. The boy who had yearned for attention and power was lost to Draco now. He stood on a single foot, constantly wobbling and hopping and trying to regain his balance; trying to regain the second leg or even a crutch that would hold him up and forgive him.

The Doctor…the Doctor wanted to _fix _him, make him brave and honest and good. His father and Voldemort wanted to fix him also, but in the complete opposite way. He was standing on a trapeze between the two extremes, desperately trying to get out of the spotlight, out of the responsibility and the expectations.

Actions had consequences, but so did doing nothing. His existence begged him to stay stationery, but everything around him caused him to changed, for the better or for the worse. Nowadays it almost always leaned towards _the worse,_ and Draco felt as if his brain had been carved out with an ice cream scoop.

His throat, his lungs, his stomach, his heart, and his muscles all ached; no matter what happened that should make him happy only made him sadder. It was like his conscience refused to let him get better, get rid of the sickness that had overtaken him; the poison that had stricken him had entered his body when he'd adopted the Dark Mark.

Now his body shuddered and tried to make him vomit every time he was alone. There was a greasy-feeling coldness inside of him, and it wouldn't come out. He was constantly tired but couldn't sleep, constantly afraid but couldn't falter, constantly upset but forced to remain immaculately calm.

He was that foggy, unfocused person standing on the edge of an old photo, as if they had simply been walking by and were of no importance to the picture. Everything seemed shiny and bright, like it was glowing; the windows, the carpets, the staircase were all radiant, polished as if to mock his somber attitude. He lost weight, feeling almost as if he were weightless, buoyant, gliding through the days as if they were simply minutes.

When October the twenty-fifth came, he was prepared to escape the school by borrowing one of the Quidditch team's brooms and pretending to practice in the pitch. When he was far away from the school enough that no one would notice what he was doing, he turned his broom in the direction of the nearest edge of the grounds and flew without a care. A light breeze picked up and blew his blonde hair away from his forehead.

It seemed to take ages, but when he made it to a dusty-looking road, he landed, and looked back to find that Hogwarts had vanished. He was sure he'd probably set off an alarm somewhere when he crossed the school's shields, but he didn't care. Clutching the broom next to him, he Disapparated and appeared on the grounds of his own home, Malfoy Manor.

Taking an apprehensive look at the somber, colorless house he'd grown up in, he steeled himself and neutralized his face before stepping forward. He didn't make it halfway to his so-called home before he was set upon by an array of creatures: first, a snake he recognized as Nagini, whom he avoided as she slithered up to greet him. Next came a house elf, offering to take his jacket and the broom. Shoving the objects into the house elf's eager, terrified arms, he scowled as his eyes met with those of the last creature that had emerged from the household: Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf.

"Master Draco," said Greyback in a sarcastic, scratchy-sounding voice. "What a surprise."

Draco was no longer afraid of the wolf as he had been as a child and simply sneered. "A pleasure, I'm sure," he said icily, jerking the color of his pressed white shirt straight so his mother wouldn't do so when she coddled him upon his entry.

Crossing the threshold that led inside the family home, Draco listened to the familiar creaks of the house settling and sighed. Narcissa Malfoy, his mother, came running from the parlor and engulfed him in a hug, her face and voice delighted at his arrival. But, he noticed, she also seemed strained. He felt the same way and hugged her back, answering her questions about school shortly and then following her and Greyback towards the dining hall. Nothing had really changed from the last time he'd been here except those in attendance: there were a few Death Eaters missing and a couple gained. He sniffed to accent his distaste, having always considered anyone other than his father and mother an intruder in their home.

Voldemort sat at the head of the table like the CEO of a muggle business, and Draco's father, Lucius, sat stiffly at his side. Lucius didn't bother to acknowledge his son, and Draco wistfully remembered the slightly-more-jovial Lucius Malfoy of the past. He stifled another sigh and walked towards the Dark Lord, not reacting as conversations fell silent and his name was murmured around the room. Bowing his head before sinking to a knee and waiting for Voldemort to offer his hand, Draco mumbled, "My lord." He grasped the cold, veiny hand with the translucent skin and remained kneeling. "Things are coming along slowly, but everything is going well. There is to be a Halloween ball on the night of the thirty-first, and I am planning on killing Dumbledore there."

The snakelike man nodded absently, as if he were barely interested. Draco, however, knew better: the man Voldemort most feared was Albus Dumbledore, and this was perhaps the most important task to be carried out presently. "It seems a bit of a squeeze, Draco, don't you think?" mused the Dark Lord. "Six days' time…are you sure you're…_prepared?"_

Draco nodded, not meeting the wizard's eyes. "I can do it, sir," he said quietly. "Otherwise I would have told you I couldn't the day you gave me this task."

Voldemort seemed pleased and retracted his hand from Draco's. "Very well. Tell me, is this a masquerade type of ball? If so, you should wear a costume."

Trying not to roll his eyes at the Dark Lord's gossipy tone, Draco nodded and said, "I was planning on dressing up as a court jester, my lord, but I've yet to make a costume."

"Hush, hush," spoke Voldemort like a doting grandmother. "I'll have one made for you."

Draco was fully aware that the Dark Lord was making an ass out of him, and the sniggers of the nearby Death Eaters cemented that, but all Draco did was give a gracious thanks. He was told to stay for dinner and so he sat at the place completely opposite the Dark Lord on the other end of the table; a far reach from being considered the Head of the family, but Draco didn't miss Lucius' cold stare as he took his seat. Smirking at his father with abandon, he glared hollowly at the rest of the Dark Lord's followers before a steak was set in front of him by a shaking house elf.

* * *

As promised, a silver-and-black harlequin's outfit was delivered to Draco in Hogwarts' Great Hall the next morning. No mention of his absence or any breach in security occurred, so he assumed no one had investigated. He returned the broom to his fellow Slytherin and kept to himself again, and over the next few days, he realized that he would probably need an alibi if he was going to murder the Headmaster.

Glancing at Pansy Parkinson from the corner of his eye, he watched her disgusting pug face as she laughed and ate with her friends down the table. Catching his eye, she fluffed her hair and waved, and he decided it was best she be his date.

After the end of classes the same day, he told her she would be his date and she didn't protest, so he sat in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the dawn. The next morning would be Halloween, and the nervousness in his stomach wouldn't let him sleep, so eventually he left his bed and put his robes on, sneaking out of the common room.

Candles made the quiet, deserted hallways' shadows flicker and dance as he crept through them, taking the moving staircases up to the seventh floor and finding the left corridor, finding the hideous tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy's attempt to teach trolls ballet. Opposite the tapestry was the entrance to the Room of Requirement, a hidden, magical room he'd only heard of last year.

Pacing back and forth three times in front of it, he thought of what he needed and watched as the entrance materialized before stepping eagerly through the doors, expecting to find a nice, white, padded room like an asylum would have.

Instead, he found himself inside the TARDIS.

Taken aback, his eyebrows almost touched his hairline as he said, "Doctor?" before realizing that this wasn't the actual TARDIS. Feeling foolish, he turned around and began to exit the magical room before he heard his name echo through the walls. Surprised once again, he turned around and listened as the word _Draco_ reverberated all around him in the orange-ish glow. Out stepped the Doctor, looking a bit taken aback himself. "It's rare that I get visitors," said the whimsical man. "The TARDIS picked up your signal. How did you find me?"

Draco shook his head. "I didn't. This time, this is _my_ kind of magic, not yours. Uh, sorry to…bother you. I need to go."

The Doctor did a little dance, but his face fell as he realized how gaunt and sickly Draco looked compared to the last time they'd adventured together. "Go where?" he asked. "Italy? Mars? Skaro?"

Draco shook his head again, not in the mood to deal with the Doctor's ramblings. "No," he said. "I need to leave _you._ I need to sleep. Goodbye, Doctor." Turning, he paused in the doorway and looked back, saying, "Doctor? Try to follow me out. I want to see if you can cross the threshold."

Smiling, the Doctor came forward slowly, and Draco held the door open from the outside, waiting to see if it were possible. _If he can cross the threshold from the TARDIS, then maybe I can get him to transport the Death Eaters here through such a…portal,_ thought Draco. But the Doctor seemed to hit a barrier and bounced away from the threshold, looking displeased before he shrugged and said, "Sorry, Draco Malfoy. It appears we must continue our visits the longer way. When do you want me to arrive?"

"I don't," said Draco before turning away from the door and walking away.

The door fell shut slowly, and Draco rounded a corner before he could see the Doctor stick his gangly foot out and catch the door. The Doctor had faked there being a barrier when he sensed something was more amiss than usual with the blonde-haired Malfoy, and, having sensed a bigger threat within the walls of Hogwarts, he'd elected to investigate.

Before setting foot into the seventh floor left corridor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he paused for a moment to wink back at the empty TARDIS, a gleam in his eye as he said his favorite word.

"_Geronimo."_


End file.
